Hearing What Is Said
by ItsClydeBitches221B
Summary: A fill for the lovely anon who asked: "Would you maybe consider doing a Cussidy story where like jesse gets hurt somehow? maybe by the angels? or maybe he gets threatened & used as leverage by the group hunting cass or something? either way, in the end cass would go to save him. thanks so much!" I already kinda wrote that with An Echo of Love... so here's a sequel!


After the barn Cass kept a damn close eye on his padre.

Not that he thought more of those hunter assholes were going to show up, not anytime soon at least. Regardless of how they were tracking him down, Mr. Crewcut (as Jesse 'affectionately' called him) had clearly been the ringleader of that little ball of shite. With him out of the way—buried deep under Mrs. Parkers' roses, hopefully giving them a nice, all natural feeding—that should send any of the rest of their lot a pretty clear message regarding who they were fucking with and how they'd be fucked in turn. If it didn't… maybe their shirts would.

Cass had personally stripped every pasty white bastard of his polo or tee, hanging the bloodied garments on spikes next to the "Welcome to Annville!" sign. Barbaric, sure, but if it worked for his 20th century Irishmen, it was sure as hell good enough for Cass. More importantly, if any of this shite town's residents had a problem with the new decor...well, they hadn't brought it up yet. Bloody and shredded clothing had all the hallmarks of Preacher Jesse and his new, psychotic friend. The lot probably knew what was best for them now.

Smart, actually. Cass was honestly amazed.

So in all the hubbub of burying bodies and scrubbing the poor Parkers' property ("Ammonia's good for bloodstains, mate." "Yeah I'll just pull some outta my ass...") Cass had decided that regardless of his own safety precautions, he'd be sticking to Jesse like vampire glue. For how long, one might ask? Cass was thinking about sixty more years, whatever added up to the average human lifespan nowadays.

It wouldn't be nearly enough, but it was a hell of a lot more than Cass deserved.

It didn't escape his notice of course that all of this was his fault. Jesse had a whole rainbow of bruises covering his torso, masked only by the tape that was holding his ribs together. There was a lump the size of a nut on the back of his head where that bastard had whacked him (twice) with a plank of wood. And of course his neck was nothing to sneeze at. Cass' saliva had stopped him bleeding out, but the whole area was a tender mess of slashes. Jesse was only lucky that preacher's collar covered as much as it did.

In fact, no one would have known anything was amiss if it wasn't for the cast on Jesse's wrist. Even that was explained away with a few mutters about drinking too much and taking a tumble—certainly no one questioned it. All in all, Cass was impressed by how easily Jesse had slipped back into his everyday life. At least as 'everyday' as it got around Annville.

Still... didn't negate what had happened. Or the fact that Jesse had gotten hurt like hell, nearly _killed_. Or the vampire reveal... or any of it really.

"Shite," Cass muttered. He pressed his forehead into the rim of his mug. "Shite, shite, double shite, with a crap cheery on top ah god _dammit_."

It was real pathetic, him sitting in a corner booth of the bar all alone. It was a full night and the other patrons were all giving him dirty looks. Might have been due to a developing reputation, or just because he was hogging said booth all to himself. Cass couldn't go over to the bar though. That's where Jesse was. There was a reason Cass had been nursing just one freaking beer for hours now.

See, lovely thing about being a bastard: keeping to someone's side didn't mean they had to _know_ that's what you were doing.

After killing all those walking sacks of shit, after the horror of seeing Jesse's neck all bust to hell, getting a taste of him, that power, holding his goddamn _hand_ —

Cass might have had a little, tiny, minuscule panic attack. Nothing major. Just enough of a nuisance that it had him avoiding their town preacher at all costs since. Bit of help cleaning up and then _boom_ , Cass was gone.

Not literally of course. Couldn't exactly avoid him in a place this small, but Cass could damn well try. Every time Jesse was out Cass was in. He's in? Time to go out! He'd taken to roaming during the night and sleeping anywhere but the attic during the day. Only real constant was keeping Jesse in sight. Didn't matter if he was a spec in the distance or a smell around the corner, Cass kept that man within a tight, protective circle.

Which led him here, drowning his sorrows with just one goddamn beer while Jesse hogged the bar.

"Rotten bastard."

Only consolation was Jesse didn't look like he was having a grand old time. Looked rather morose, all things considered. Cass knew the man to drink, sure, but he'd been more than excessive tonight. A whole row of shots had disappeared, supplemented by a bottle in his coat pocket that Jesse had been nipping at all night. Barman had cut him off at one point and Cass thought he was gonna have to step in, but then Jesse leaned across the counter and Cass watched as the poor bloke's face went the color of spoiled milk, Jesse whispering who knew what into his ear. Whatever he'd said, it had earned Jesse more drinks than a single guy could handle in a _week_.

Except for Cass of course. Which just hammered in the irony of his single beer. What a shite night.

"And yet, despite the drought, ol' bladder rears its ugly head..."

Cass stood with a grunt, sending a tight glare at the nearest assholes. Anyone touched his booth and there'd be bloody hell to pay when he got back. He caught one last sight of Jesse—another glass in his hand, bent so far over the bar he was nearly sleeping on it—and decided that he could take a pee break at the very least. Stupid man would still be there when Cass got back.

Everyone seemed to receive the 'don't fuck with me' message. Cass pushed his way through the crowds and slipped into the single-stall restroom. It was about as lovely as you'd expect of a place like this: awful smell, unidentifiable liquids on the floor, one rusting toilet that looked like it had last been cleaned during the Cold War, and crude graffiti covering the walls that was a true testament to Annville's creativity (' _Sam loves dick!_ ' ' _Mom's a bitch, Laurie!_ ' ' _Donnie squeals like a bunny_ '—okay that one was good). Cass scrubbed at his eyes and relieved himself, barely bothering to aim. Wasn't like it made a difference to the overall cleanliness.

When all was said and done Cass shook himself and wiped his hands on his jeans. He sure as fuck didn't trust the water here. Still, he took a moment to stare at himself in the cracked mirror, hating the mug even more than he had after he'd first turned.

And that was saying a damn lot.

"You promised him no more trouble," Cass sneered at it, lips curled back in a snarl. "Look at you. You knew those fuckers were after ya. Knew they were trackin' you somehow. An' you did what? _Fuck all_ , that's what. Drinkin' shite and throwin' shade, tryin' to cuddle up to Jesse every damn minute you could. No wonder they knew to grab him instead, you absolute _wanker_."

Cass didn't realize he was cracking the sink until a huge chunk came off, falling on his foot in the process. He let out a curse that was half pain half fury. The fact that the second part was aimed purely at himself didn't help things a damn bit.

He knew he should up and leave. Should have left the second after he was done burying his fair share of bodies. Wasn't doing Jesse any good staying here—was actively hurting the man—but every time Cass went to pack up what little shit he had he just... well, everything got harder.

"Too much of a coward, you are," he told that reflection. "Goddamn, selfish coward."

" _Hey! You dead in there? Hurry up!_ "

Cass tore open the door just fast enough for the fucker to tumble in, his boots landing in the puddle of water that was accumulating on the floor. "Sink's busted," Cass growled and knocked the guy halfway into the wall. He stomped off, ignoring his look of stupid surprise.

Back out into the crush of bodies. Heightened senses let Cass smell the sweat and booze that adhered to them all. The blood too. There were paper-cuts and busted noses, more than one woman on the rag. He sunk his teeth into his lower lip and told himself to get the hell over it. Didn't matter if he hadn't fed since the barn. Bigger things to worry about now. Like Jesse. If he wasn't man enough to leave him, least he could do was watch his back.

Cass' booth was still free—a damn good thing too. He slid in and wiped the last drop of beer off his mug like the pathetic fucker he was. When he looked up he was all prepared to stare at Jesse for another good couple hours.

Only problem was, Jesse was gone.

"Fuck me sideways."

* * *

Jesse didn't know how things had gone to shit so fast.

One minute he's got a decent gig preaching to the Texas scum he'd grown up with, the next it had all gone topsy turey with a speed that had left Jesse reeling. Growing a conscious had been bad enough. Throwing in some sort of crazy power that felt like it was bound to his very soul and finding out that his new, hard-drinking Irish friend was actually a _vampire_...

"Thought I knew the world," Jesse said, raising his glass to the bartender. The guy quickly shuffled over to the other side of the counter, avoiding eye-contact at all costs. Jesse probably deserved that. He had vague memories of the poor guy denying him his whiskey and pulling him down by that cheap Ralph Lauren knockoff, hissing how he'd be more than happy to announce all his sins to this here crowded bar. You know, the ones he'd confessed to dear ol' Preacher Jesse?

In truth Jesse had been flying blind. He didn't know this guy from Adam and only _hoped_ he'd confessed sometime in Jesse's short-lived career. Turns out he'd hit a home run because the barman had happily left him alone and kept the drinks coming.

Nothing like more whiskey to drown your confusion.

'Cause that's what it was. Strangeness Jesse could handle well enough. A fine pounding too. It had been a while since a group had gotten the jump on him like that and frankly he blamed compliance more than their numbers. He'd gotten too comfortable in his role of 'wise town preacher,' letting those men get right up in his face before Jesse even began to smell trouble. It was on them like fucking perfume and Jesse should have caught it a mile away. He was losing his touch.

"Maybe that's why Cass is pissed," he muttered and took another swing.

A few guys around him gave Jesse odd looks, nervous ones that said they knew him even without the collar and should you really be indulging like this, preacher? He ignored most of them and flipped off the rest. Jesse had learned a long time ago that there were moments to play the role model and moments to drown out your thoughts in cheap booze. This time was one of the latter.

He honestly didn't know how it had all gone down so fast... only other time in his life Jesse could admit to the same was with Carlos: one moment fine, the next the screech of tires and Tulip's shriek changed it all. Only this time things had changed more quietly... and if he was playing the honest card, Jesse would admit that he cared more about Cass then he ever did Carlos. Stupid, unreadable fucker...

He remembered the barn, familiar pains across his body and the smell of blood, so much thicker than even Jesse was used to. He remembered keeping his gaze locked with Cass' and thinking—just for the split second between staring and dropping to the floor—that he'd achieved something with Cass in a few weeks what it had taken him years to find with Tulip. Both connections were still there, Jesse didn't think either would ever diminish, but the speed of it all kind of scared the fuck out of him. Where were they gonna be a month from now? A year even?

"Nowhere," Jesse muttered, because he'd moved too fast and too... _weird_. Yeah, sure, being a vampire wasn't anything normal, but at least that had a hard edge to it. Most guys weren't keen on lying down next to other guys like that, even if it was in pools of blood. They weren't too fond of holding hands neither, not in the goddamn heart of Texas.

Jesse had actually been thrilled by Cass' response, always "too much like a goddamn octopus," as Tulip had once put it. He didn't know what they had, but he was willing to let it unfurl, and theirs had seemed like something exciting, if unconventional, good for the both of them... until Cass had decided to beat it the high tale outta there.

It hadn't been overt, but not totally subtle either. No more late night "dinners" or talks during the day, when Cass would be yawning through his words and Jesse only now knew why. The guy used to freaking _stalk_ him, for fuck's sake. Now Jesse was lucky to catch glimpses of him around corners or across the goddamn church. It hurt in a way he'd never expected.

It was only four days in that he realized maybe it wasn't him, or the hand holding, or any of that shit.

Maybe it was him.

"You ever force someone?" Jesse asked, startling the barman half to hell. The man paused in his scurrying, staring wide-eyed and still. Jesse grinned at him over the counter, predatory.

"F-forced...?" the man asked. He startled again when someone shouted for their drink.

Jesse tapped the tip of his shot glass. "Yeah. Pretty girl... pretty boy even. Maybe one of these here fine folks had a little too much... bit too sleepy... passed out like a lovely little package in the one of your booths at the end of the night." Jesse leaned forward on his elbows, leering. "Ever took one just because they were there? Told yourself you knew them, knew what they wanted... violence ain't the only thing that breeds all circular like. Though that is a kind of violence all its own, isn't it? Kind _you_ know?"

Jesse's voice had grown harder with every syllable, drinks finally catching up and something—some _feeling_ —was making his stomach churn and his arms tremble. He slapped the bar and shook the man from his trance.

He shook his head.

"Fuck, 'course not. You're one of the good one, ain't you?" Jesse smiled with all teeth. " _I_ know that violence. Here's your tip."

He threw it onto the bar, letting the bills soak into all the spilled booze, watching as the pathetic man grabbed them up. Jesse was too drunk for this now. He peered over at the restroom and, finding it occupied, shook his head. Couldn't stand this place another moment anyway.

Jesse shoved his way through strangers and flock alike, making his way outside. When the humid air hit him he grunted and wobbled, following the wall around to the back of the bar. There he relieved himself and as he did Jesse leaned his forehead against the brick.

"Shouldn't've forced him," he muttered, grinding skin against cinder block. "Even little stuff like holdin' hands. Guy like Cass... 'course he'd be scared off by a power like that, _shit_."

Jesse hit his boot and cursed again, shaking urine into the weeds. He scrubbed at his eyes and promised—like he'd promised for days now—that he'd track Cass down tomorrow and actually talk to the bastard. Wouldn't be pretty, might well end bloody, but it had to be done, dammit.

Smacking his lips and turning unsteadily, Jesse had every intention of passing out in the nearest, socially acceptable building. Finding two cowboys staring him down though... that was an unexpected change to the evening.

Jesse stared back. There was a Tall one and there was Short one and it was enough like Mr. Crewcut that Jesse had a switchblade out faster than he would have thought his body capable of in this state. The tall one winced, actually taking a step back.

"Please don't kill us," he said.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "Interesting statement, that. I don't know. _Should_ I kill two assholes watching me take a piss?"

"We..." The shorter one looked confused, shaking his head. "We have no interest in your bodily functions. We want what's inside you."

"Well now you're just getting sentimental."

"We want the _power_ ," Tall clarified. He reclaimed his ground, one hand pointing shakily at Jesse's chest. "We heard you. Maybe... maybe we can help each other out? Just listen..."

Oddly enough, Jesse did.

* * *

Cass wasn't known for keeping a clear head in an emergency. Over a hundred years and he still flailed about, all panicky like.

It wasn't pretty.

"Hey! Hey you lot!" Cass was up on his table, stomping and waving his hands, trying to get the whole bar's attention. A few people looked at the 'drunk' guy. A few more flipped him off. The barman looked like he was two seconds away from a coronary.

"Oy, I'm serious! Who here's seen the preacher?"

A brief moment of silence. Then everyone went back to their drinks.

"…you motherfuckin' wankers."

He couldn't smell Jesse with all these other bastards packed inside, but Cass hadn't spotted him passed out or anything neither. With a curse he jumped down and began shouldering his way to the door. Three steps out and he caught the scent, growing overwhelmingly strong behind the bar...

"Aw, c'mon padre. That ain't classy."

Still, proof that Jesse had been here. Cass knew he was overreacting. A lovely little voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him of it—so Cass mentally beat it to death with a bat. Who the fuck cared if he was overreacting? Last time Jesse went out alone he got jumped by a bunch of vamp-hating freaks. This time around Cass wasn't assuming a thing. Jesse was home safe in bed when Cass damn well _saw_ it.

"Now, if I were a wanderin' preacher where would I go..."

Cass grimaced at the smell of urine but did his best to hone in on it anyway. He was a few yards down the road when he caught another scent. Two actually.

"No," Cass whispered. "That ain't right..."

He wasn't a betting man—okay he _was_ , but in this case he wasn't—because if Cass was right it meant that two blokes he thought were dead sort of... weren't. Which was right strange because he clearly remembered beating one to death and sawing through the other's arm. Then chopping them both to bits. Packing 'em into a trunk. Burying them come dusk... you didn't just _imagine_ all that.

Cass shook his head. "Maybe you do if you've got better drugs than what I've found around here."

Didn't matter. Only thing that did was those three scents mingling together, heading in the same direction. Everyone in this shit town Jesse could have run into and he chose the bloody fucking wankers who'd tried to _open him up with a chainsaw_.

"You're a moron," Cass moaned, gripping his hair. "I'm in love with a moron. _Zombie_ vampire hunters, what the _fuck_ , Jesse?"

It wasn't the kind of confession Cass had imagined—he hardly registered his own words—because his worst fear was coming back to kick him in the ass and it was somehow even _worse_ than the worst fear this just wasn't _fair_.

No more wasted time. Cass set off in a sprint, pausing only to grab a tire iron by some random guy's truck. He wouldn't miss it. Certainly wouldn't ask for it back.

Not if he'd caught sight of Cass' expression.

* * *

You look at your life, you look at your choices.

Jesse was seriously beginning to reconsider his.

He'd finally come to the conclusion that he might have been a tad bit drunk when he found himself in a stranger's hotel room, lying on their bed, with a... _can_ resting on his chest? It was all more than a little strange, and frankly Jesse had had his fill of weird, cultish rituals lately.

Only thing that kept him from bolting and kicking some ass in the process was what the two wannabe cowboys had said. Or rather, what they already seemed to know: about the weird power residing within Jesse, the ability that came with it, even the gory, recent events in his life.

"We were going to step in," one said, called himself DeBlanc. He leaned over the bed and lightly tapped Jesse's chest. "Couldn't afford for them to kill you and let the child go free. But then your... _friend_ showed up, did the work for us..."

"He did," Jesse acknowledged. All that drink was hitting him hard now—a subtle tingle in his limbs, the room shifting side-to-side—but the mention of Cass focused his thoughts somewhat. That was why he was doing this, right? This kind of power seemed great in theory, but what was the point if it scared off Cass? What was he gonna do with it anyway? Make Annville a better place? Be a better preacher? _Screw_ that.

Cass was right. That was _boring_.

"What's boring?" DeBlanc asked and Jesse only realized then that he'd been muttering aloud. He and Mr. Tall—Fiore, apparently, the hell kind of name was that?—shared a look before DeBlanc set his hand on Jesse's shoulder next, an almost comforting gesture.

Jesse wanted to slap it away. A part of him was screaming that this was such a vulnerable position, outnumbered and splayed out, his senses dulled... but an even stronger part said it was worth it. Probably.

Hell, either way it wasn't the strangest thing Jesse had done this week.

"Wha' you gonna do?" he slurred, barely lifting his head. Jesse tried to pat the can on his chest and missed by a foot.

DeBlanc set his hand back on the comforter. "Draw it out," he said. "Or try to. It didn't exactly work last time, but...but it's a _child_. It enjoys music."

"It does?"

"Hold still, preacher."

For once in his miserable life Jesse did as he was told. He was drunk and still reeling from one of the closest calls he'd had in years, missing his best friend, wondering how the hell he'd gotten here with two assholes staring him down. When DeBlanc began to sing Jesse very nearly laughed, but he just managed to keep quiet, turning his head instead so he could see his wrist. Jesse gently curled his fingers around the cast.

After a few minutes DeBlanc's voice trailed off and Jesse turned back to find Fiore fidgeting on the other bed. Neither looked pleased, which Jesse took to mean this thing of theirs hadn't worked. Again.

He heaved himself up with a grunt, the can tilting. "Don't think it likes your music much, bud."

Deblanc's brow was furrowed. "You can't feel anything?"

"Besides my bladder and gut? Nope."

"Just cut it out," Fiore snapped, jumping to his feet. Jesse's brain took its sweet time translating that and by the time it did DeBlanc already had a hand up, halting Fiore. He leaned in closer to Jesse.

"You can feel it though," he murmured. "Sometimes?"

"... suppose so."

"You've _used_ it then?" DeBlanc didn't wait for an answer. "How many times? Tell me!"

"Don't appreciate your tone." But Jesse thought, trying to get his mind back into working gear. His throat was dry and his head was pounding and all that just had to wait a damn minute.

"Three," he finally said. Jesse paused. "No. Five."

Fiore threw up his hands. "Well which is it?"

"Three times. Five commands. Told a dog to shut it. Told Ted... shit. Not important what I told Ted. Gave a couple orders to Cass too..." Jesse trailed off. He hadn't even considered that—what he'd done to Ted and how he might have unintentionally done something like that to Cass too. _Really_ didn't feel like thinking about that right now. Besides, there were more important things to focus on. Like DeBlanc's devastated expression.

"It's bonding," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Settling in, like. Adhering to your soul." DeBlanc turned to Fiore who appeared equally distraught. "It needs a host with a will and he's given it that. The more he uses it the more the two of them converge—"

"I'm right here," Jesse muttered.

Fiore was shaking his head. "We're done for," he said, eyes glassy. "We're _through_."

Jesse looked between the two of them, rubbing his cheek. "...you've really lost me."

"We can at least _try_ cutting it out," and Fiore pulled a chainsaw out from underneath his bed. _That_ woke Jesse up just fine, but DeBlanc was again waving him down, literally stepping between the two of them.

"That won't work," he hissed. "Not if its bonded. You'd just kill the preacher. If the child has attached itself to his soul we need more specialized equipment than this." DeBlanc sighed, gesturing. "The kind of equipment we can't get unless we tell Heaven what's going on."

"… shit."

"Sounds like shit." With a groan Jesse rolled and sat up on the side of the bed, immediately hanging his head between his knees. He didn't bother looking up, just flapped a hand in their general direction. "Don't really care for the half-assed info you two are giving me so I'll ask you straight: you know how to get this thing outta me or not?"

Silence for a time in the room. Then DeBlanc shuffled. "Not really," he muttered.

"Fantastic." Jesse glared at his shoes. "Would you at least put the damn chainsaw away?"

Fiore made to do just that—which was right about the time Cass kicked in the door.

It was only much later (in the quiet of an embrace) that Jesse thought about how that must have looked to the poor bastard: him wasted with his head in his hands, DeBlanc utterly defeated, Fiore with a goddamn chainsaw still clutched in his grip. The scene must have been one of presumed horror for Cass, but it was mighty fine for Jesse. He'd never forget the image of Cass poised in the entrance to that barn; wouldn't forget him silhouetted in the motel doorway either. Only problem was Jesse's ogling gave Cass just enough time to swing the tire iron high and careen it into the side of DeBlanc's head.

" _Shit!_ " Jesse cried. He tumbled off the bed as Cass took another swing, this one landing square against DeBlanc's spine. An awful 'crack!' resounded in the room and was accompanied by Fiore's yelp. Jesse was shocked to see him drop his only weapon—the chainsaw—and raise his hands in trembling surrender.

"Stop killing us!" he yelled.

"Stop kidnapping my mate!" Cass roared back. The iron came down on DeBlanc again, but Cass' attention was focused entirely on Fiore. "Listen to me you filthy, little bastard: I don't know how you came back or what sorta government cooked you up, but this time I'm gonna chop you up so damn fine, grind you, feed you to the first rabid mutt I find—"

" _ **No you won't**_."

It wasn't a conscious decision to use his power, but Jesse was relieved to see Cass pause all the same. His hands released the tire iron with a comical expression of disappointment.

"Well why the fuck not?" he cried.

Jesse leaned himself against the nightstand, feeling like he wanted to scream. He ground his teeth instead. "Because I came with them willingly. Because they weren't gonna hurt me. I'm _fine_ , Cass."

"... Oh." Cass blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah really."

"Oh," he said again. Grimacing, Cass gently stepped down off DeBlanc's legs. He toed the man's arm and nodded at the flopping motion it made. "Yeah... yeah he's dead. Skull caved in an' everything. Shit. My bad…Sorry."

" _Sorry?_ " Fiore said.

"Well what else you want me to say? Last I saw you two assholes you had a—a—" Cass gestured wildly to the chainsaw. "That contraption up against Jesse's chest!"

"Wait..." Jesse leaned forward. "When was this?"

"Oh, little while back, padre. You were out like a light. Remember the mixture you chugged? Yeah, great decision-making skills demonstrated there—"

"You _killed_ him," Fiore interrupted, like he wasn't sure they were getting this. "He's _dead_."

Cass just scoffed. "Likely to come back like a wee cockroach, ain't he?"

" _ **Will he?**_ " Jesse asked and Fiore's head snapped to him, head cocked like a loyal dog's. He started nodding, rambling about angel spirits and temporary bodies, but Jesse cut him off. He thought hard about how to phrase this, each word pulling at him a little more.

" _ **Take DeBlanc somewhere no one will find him**_ ," he said. " _ **Do what you want the rest of the night, just don't come back here**_."

Fiore nodded again, already hefting DeBlanc halfway into his arms. He cast Jesse an unreadable look before burying his face in the other man's matted hair. Cass scurried out of the way as Fiore made for the door, though he stared a little longingly at the corpse.

"Seems like a waste of good blood," he murmured. "Sure I couldn't just—? No, no 'course not. That's rude, I get it."

Jesse closed his eyes and sat back on the bed, slowly lying down. He heard the door creak open and Fiore's labored breathing as he dragged the body away. When he was gone there was nothing but the ticking of the clock and Cass' fidgeting. Jesse let the silence stretch.

"Okay, what the fuck?" Cass finally said. "I leave for a piss and you're gone? Off with these two? What's _wrong_ with you?"

Jesse opened his eyes. "I left for a piss and ran into them. Not sure what's wrong with me frankly."

"Well glad we got that settled. Obviously the moral of this story is neither of us should take a piss."

Jesse chuckled, though it was a pretty weak attempt all around. He closed his eyes again because he didn't know what else to say, and the room was still spinning, and it felt like the Fourth of July had lit up inside of his head... and all of that started to abate when he felt the bed rock, Cass climbing carefully onto the left side. Jesse was still splayed out on the right, hogging the pillow. Cass now propped his head on the footboard and put his feet up at the top of the covers. They were parallel reflections and Jesse _hated_ how much it reminded him of the barn.

Cass lightly knocked his foot against Jesse's shoulder. "So… we should probably talk an' shite, yeah?"

Jesse huffed. "Probably." Then, because he'd never been good at this and the drink made it easier: "Sorry."

Beside him Cass stilled. Completely, like Perseus finally turned to stone.

"The fuck you sorry for?" he asked, voice rough.

"The fuck you think?" Jesse mimicked. He flapped a hand at Cass, still not looking at him. "Using this... _thing_ on you, without your permission. Didn't think much of it in the barn, but... hell, Cass. Taking away free will isn't anything to sneeze at."

He said it flippantly, but Jesse didn't acknowledge how true the words were until they were out there. The idea of someone trying to take away his choices—as many had actually attempted throughout his life—turned his stomach something fierce. He gripped the bedspread, half expecting a punch.

Cass wasn't laying into him though. Far from it. He propped himself up with one hand and stared at Jesse until he finally looked back.

"You know where I was in the 60s?" he asked.

"Woodstock?"

"Well yeah," Cass scratched his nose. "But before that I spent roughly three months buried beneath an oak tree in my friend's backyard."

Jesse opened his mouth only to close it again. " _What?_ "

"See, padre, there are two reactions to the whole findin' out I'm a vampire thing: yours—what with lovely acceptance an' all—or me mate's—which included pretendin' to accept it, druggin' me to high heaven, diggin' a ten-foot hole, an' leavin' me to rot." Cass shrugged, flopping back down.

"You know how long it takes to dig yourself outta a shit-storm like that? Well.. three months, I told you that already, didn't I? The point is that the bloody wanker didn't even give me a coffin to hang in. It's not exactly easy tellin' up from down when all you've got to go on is dirt. You suffocate easy. Starve too. What little my body produced covered my clothes and the smell near drove me mad. Then that all but disintegrated, leavin' just fucked up, naked me. Lost all this lovely muscle mass, so digging eventually became pretty much impossible. When I did break the surface it was really just from a combination of luck and pure stubbornness. Woulda been real easy not to make it out at all—which is what I think the bastard was goin' for."

On the opposite side of the bed Jesse was catching flies. He closed his mouth with a snap. "Christ, Cass. I—I didn't know—"

Cass just flapped a hand. "Didn't expect you to know. 'Course not. And it had a happy endin,' don't worry: I dragged myself across the bastard's yard, up his porch, broke into the house, and when he came down to see what was what I had my first feedin' in weeks." Cass grinned a sharp, toothy grin. "I'm tellin' you this not for any of them pity parties or anythin', but because you're one of that first lot. The good ones. _Jesus_ , Jesse. You think you're—what? Damned an' all 'cause you told me to relax when I was near havin' a panic attack? Or what?" Cass laughed. "'Cause you stopped me _killin'_ that other... whatever the hell they are. Fuck, if that's what you consider takin' away free will than by all means," he spread his arms. "Take mine."

"What's not cool," he continued more quietly. "Is bein' that vamp and collecting them assholes... and then drawin' them straight to a preacher's front door." Cass lightly used his boot to touch the cast on Jesse's wrist. "Just... sorry too, I guess. All that. _Fuck_ I ain't good at this."

Silence stretched again, though this time Cass couldn't keep still. He squirmed on the bed before finally throwing up his hands.

"Name was Mike, by the way. Shoulda known I couldn't trust anyone with that name and would you just _say_ somethin' already?"

Jesse laughed, a real one this time. "What's there left to say? Fuck, Cass. I think we've _both_ been idiots."

"... Aye. Alright. Distinct possibility there."

Cass and Jesse were roughly the same height, which allowed Cass' left hand to align perfectly with Jesse's right. This time Jesse didn't take without asking and Cass didn't hold back out of fear. Their hands slipped together at the same time: dried blood grazing over filthy plaster.

"Aye," Cass said again, smiling. "Full circle an' all that. Beds are a big step up from a barn though, huh? Heh... now maybe it's just my gutter-bred mind playin' tricks, but I see a sleezy motel bed, the knowledge that those two asshats won't be back for a while, and I can only think one thing. Waddya say, Padre? Is loud and raunchy make-up sex on the table? …Padre? An' yep, you're asleep, aren't ya? Bloody fantastic."

Jesse snored in response, his hand lax in Cass'.

"Fine, fine. You're injured and what anyway. Wee bit early for me, but…" Cass rolled until his face was pressed into Jesse's leg, inhaling deeply. He kept their fingers lightly clasped. "Suppose I can think of worse things than sleepin' with you."

Jesse murmured something indistinct. Might have been a name.

"Better dreams, padre."


End file.
